Seen but Unobserved
by Zeta53
Summary: After his dramatic fall into the land of the "dead", Sherlock searches for ways to destroy Moriarty's ever-expanding web. While travelling through France, he crosses the path of a young artist who observes what he has not yet admitted to himself.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Still Stranger

He was dressed in a suit that fit his figure snugly, a clean white shirt over pressed black trousers with a matching jacket. The outfit appeared incredibly stylish, just as the man wearing it seemed to be. He was tall and trim with a mess of dark curls on the top of his head. His skin was a creamy white color, not so much pale but almost statuesque, as if it were made of the same marble as many of the sculptures featured all over the city. He could have been a statue for all she knew; he had barely moved in the past half hour, the only sign of life the slightest twitch of a finger on his espresso cup or the faintest hint of a breath taken. He didn't even seem to blink, though she did catch a few slow ones now and then.

He sat alone which, in this little Paris restaurant at 4:00 in the afternoon, was not uncommon, but he was somehow different from all the rest. As she continued to watch him it became apparent that he was one of the very few present not apparently glued to one electronic device or another. Everyone else in the small, dimly lit room (and she did include herself in this group since, if not for the man, she would've been no exception) was looking at the artificial light of a smartphone or a laptop computer, minding their own business and ignoring everything around them. Not this man, though. He stared out into the crowd, appearing to observe the opposite side of the room very intently. It was only when she had chosen to look closer, intrigued by the still stranger, that she realized that he was not observing at all but simply staring, his eyes unfocused, gazing deep into his own mind.

Kellie bent over her notebook, attempting to get the image just right. She had always enjoyed sketching, ever since her early school years. It calmed her, mostly, allowed her thoughts to slow and order themselves neatly when she hit a roadblock at work or was feeling particularly stressed. It was a comforting hobby more than a skill, but her frequent business trips to foreign countries and the excess free time it allotted her had provided the perfect opportunities to challenge herself.

Challenges, for her, came in the form of people, and this mysterious man had posed so perfectly for her.

She finished the full Cupid's bow mouth, slightly downturned, and added a bit more shadow on his face to make those impressive cheekbones more pronounced. So far it was coming along nicely, but she had saved the hardest part for last: his eyes. From where she sat, it was hard to tell exactly what color they were, but she guessed they were the kind of eyes that changed frequently depending on the lighting. At the present moment, she thought, they looked like a dark blue. What really struck her, however, was not the color but the sadness that radiated from behind them. It rippled within their depths and spilled out onto his otherwise beautiful face, carving lines into his marbled skin in every direction. It made him look older than she suspected he actually was, hunched his shoulders a bit and cast his eyes slightly downward so that, to the world around him, he looked not sad but adrift, lonely…

Broken.

It nearly broke her heart to see a man so distraught. As she filled in those eyes, unfocussed and sad as they were, she wondered what, or even who, he may have been thinking of.

" _Quel beau dessin!_ "

Kellie jumped and looked up, surprised out of her concentration by the voice. She had been so absorbed, apparently, that she had not seen the still stranger move from his post in the corner, had not noticed him move toward the exit. She was seated very near the door, and it was impossible for him not to see her and her sketch. He stood before her now, his eyes boring into her.

" _P-pardon_?" Kellie spluttered, realizing that she had been staring a little.

" _Est-il a vendre? Puis-je vous l'acheter?_ " He spoke rapidly, gesturing to her and then her notebook excitedly. She had a limited French vocabulary. She had been forced to study Latin in school, but that was so long ago now. She remembered only a small amount, and that did little in the way of help with translation, especially at the rate he was speaking.

"I-I'm sorry, sir, I don't understand," Kellie said, apologetically. "I don't speak French."

The man seemed to register her words. "You're American," he said, not a question but a statement. She nodded to confirm. He pulled the seat out opposite her at the tiny table and sat down, as if, just by that simple nod, she had invited him to do so. "Hello, I'm Thomas."

"Uh, hi," she said, uncertainly, sitting back a bit. "I'm Kellie."

He was gorgeous up close, tousled chocolate curls falling artfully to frame his face. The sadness was gone from his face, replaced with a smile that showed his very excellent teeth. His eyes, she noted, were bright blue, lighter than she had first guessed, but with flecks of gold and green that would make them ever-changing in different lighting, as she had expected. She thought not many people could pull off that hairstyle, those cheekbones, and that suit, but this was clearly a confident man; confident or perhaps simply indifferent to what others thought. He certainly didn't seem to think he was doing anything wrong when he looked at her like that, his eyes roving over her, sharp and calculating and intelligent. She could almost see the cogs turning inside his head. What was he seeing?

"You're very talented," he said at last. She found it hard to understand him. His English was very good but heavily accented. As if he knew what she was thinking, he indicated her notebook where her sketch of him stared sadly back at them. "Are you an art student?"

"Oh, no," she said, feeling flattered in spite of her apprehension. "No, I'm just visiting."

"Really?" He seemed truly surprised. "You could've fooled me!" He chuckled softly, but his eyes remained sharp and calculating, watching her closely.

He was putting on an act, she thought. He wanted something, laying the flattery on thick, but she wasn't sure, exactly, what he could want from her.

Again, as if reading her mind, he seemed to know that she wasn't convinced and pressed on. "Well, if you don't mind, I'd like to buy that drawing from you," he said, catching her completely off guard. "Is it for sale?"

"Oh!" said Kellie, surprise getting the better of her. "O-of course, sir! You can take it. Here." She began pulling the sheet of paper carefully out of her notebook so it wouldn't tear.

" _C'est magnifique_!" said Thomas, sounding excited. "Thank you my dear. It is truly a wonderful picture.

Kellie finished pulling the page out of her notebook and passed it across the small table to him. "It's no problem," she said, smiling.

The man took the drawing and studied it. "You have a good eye for detail," he said as he stood. "I'm afraid I must be going. It was lovely to-"

His hand had extended towards her in what she assumed was meant to be a handshake, but his sudden silence pulled her attention back to his face. That same look, the one he had been wearing while she drew him, once again hung upon his features, only now it was accompanied by shock, the kind that stopped someone dead in their tracks or made their blood run cold. The transition was so sudden that Kellie wondered whether she had imagined Thomas.

"Are you alright?" she asked with concern. His eyes were fixed on the small table between them and she followed his gaze. What could possibly have arrested his attention so suddenly and completely?

Author's Note:

Just to make things a bit clearer in case you're confused, this story is meant to take place about a year after The Reichenbach Fall while Sherlock is travelling through Europe.

I apologize for the French used in this chapter. I used Google Translate for help, and I know that it's not always accurate. Forgive the potentially butchered phrases! Thomas (Sherlock) was supposed to be saying "What a beautiful drawing! Is it for sale? May I buy it from you?"

Thank you for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: The American's Advice

Today 5:17 PM

 _YOU LIED TO ME._

 **DID I?**

 _YOU SAID HE WAS MOVING ON._

 **YOU MUST BE MORE SPECIFIC. TO WHOM DO YOU REFER?**

 _DON'T PLAY THE FOOL._

 **AH. I TAKE IT YOU MEAN OUR DEAR DOCTOR.**

 _YOU TOLD ME HE WAS WORKING AGAIN._

 _YOU TOLD ME HE WAS DOING WELL._

 **CORRECT ON BOTH COUNTS.**

 _THEN WHY IS HE STILL UNHAPPY?_

 **I CAN'T FORCE HIM TO BE HAPPY.**

His target led a very tedious existence, visiting the same places at the same time every day. At first, he had dismissed him as a creature of habit, dull and stupid and easily disposed of, but that hardly coincided with one employed by Jim Moriarty. So, naturally, he must be studied more closely, and that required leg work. Sherlock had followed him into the tiny café and settled at a table in a dark corner, watching closely as Maurice Lebebure ordered a small cheese platter with fruit. Then, for the next thirty minutes, he had been on his mobile phone.

It had been an utter waste of time.

Once Lebebure had gone (heading back to his small shop for another few hours before closing for the night, according to his regular schedule), Sherlock had retreated to his mind palace, sorting through what little data he had. Perhaps this was not the man he was looking for. He was too traditional, too regular in his habits, to be of any importance in such a large operation. But no, Lebebure seemed too tech savvy for such a traditional Parisian, and he should have turned tail and run far away from the internet café he so frequently visited instead of spending so much time on his phone inside. That was something to explore. He should find a way to look at the phone. He could follow him to that farmer's market tomorrow, perhaps… Yes. He could create a diversion and pickpocket the man, just as John had helped him when-

He stopped himself, not willing to return to those memories. He could not afford to think about anything from his former life. It would distract him from his mission now. He would never be able to concentrate if he kept picturing lazy mornings in Baker Street, sunlight streaming in through the windows and falling upon sleep-ruffled golden hair, bleary blue eyes resting on him, and a soft smile tugging pale pink lips upward…

John…

The assault was instantaneous. Every memory he had of John Watson flooded his thoughts: every smile, every laugh, every argument that sent John stomping from the flat, every case that kept John running at his heels, every electrified glance smoldering between them that never quite reached its full potential…

He mentally shook himself, snapping quickly back to the present. Café. Paris. Lebebure. Blinking rapidly to clear his thoughts, he stood and left some money on the table for his espresso before heading for the exit. The café was cramped, filled with tiny tables and tech-occupied patrons. He weaved his way between them all gracefully, catching glimpses here and there. The waitress was new and fairly incompetent. A man was currently having an affair with a woman across the room and trying hard to hide it from his wife beside him. The woman by the door was lost in thought over a drawing of-

Sherlock stopped walking suddenly, staring down at the notebook on the table where the woman was still sketching _him_. Why? He looked over her again more carefully. Had he missed something? Her clothing was not posh enough to be a Parisian. Her hair style was very professional. A boarding pass stuck out from inside her handbag, timestamped two days ago. Her plate held the crust edge of a brioche sandwich. American. Here on business, leaving in the morning.

No, if she had been hired to watch him, photographs were much more reliable than an amateurish drawing in an old notebook. Besides, she had no stealth, had not even bothered to try and hide anything from him. This woman was no threat, but the last thing he needed was for Moriarty's men to know he was here. Best not to take any chances.

Of course she didn't speak French, but he did anyway, beginning a conversation. He smiled at her, appeared friendly, complimented her on her talents, but she was less responsive than he had anticipated, watching him with a suspicion he couldn't help but approve of. But she wasn't falling for his act, so he dropped the flattery and asked for the drawing outright. She handed it over happily.

"You have a good eye for detail," he said as he stood from her table. That much was true at least. The sketch was rather good for an amateur. "I'm afraid I must be going. It was lovely to-"

Oh…

A face stared up at him from the table, making his entire system grind to a shuddering halt. It was a face he knew well, the face he would always remember but had tried desperately to forget, the face of the person he had died to save.

John Watson sat alone, staring straight ahead at something not seen. Although he was dressed for work (work trousers, button up plaid shirt under a jumper) and his hair was combed back, his cheeks bore the unmistakable shadow of neglected hair growth and he looked thinner that Sherlock remembered, as if eating had become more of an afterthought than a necessity. His mouth was turned down at the edges, his face bore new lines, and he looked older than Sherlock had ever seen him. His eyes were changed too, underscored with dark bags and filled with so much sadness that Sherlock's chest _ached_. He was so different from the John Watson he knew and yet the expression was reminiscent of the one he had worn just before Sherlock had jumped from the roof of Bart's.

Had he moved on at all?

"Are you alright?"

The question seemed to pull him out of his memories, and he looked up, seeing the woman (she had told him her name…) look between himself and the picture, making assumptions. He hastily schooled his features into a look of interest, hoping she had not seen too much.

"This one is very sad," he said, careful to continue speaking in heavily accented English. "Where did you do it?"

The woman looked back at him, her brow creased in confusion. She studied his face for a few seconds, attempting, he assumed, to find something there, but he simply raised a brow in question, prompting her to answer.

"I was in London last month," she said, slowly. "I saw this man on the subway- the underground train?"

"Ah, _oui_ ," he said, nodding to show he understood. "And this man, he sat for you?"

"No," she said. Her eyes were studying him again, and he had a very uncomfortable feeling that she could see right through him. Was this what others felt when he watched them?

He shifted nervously and then mentally shook himself. She didn't see anything. She couldn't. He turned his face away from her.

"Well, as I said, it was lovely meeting you, but I must go." He turned swiftly and made for the exit, getting far away from the woman and her drawings.

A hand caught his shoulder and he looked down to see the American catching up to him.

"Wait," she said, stepping into his path.

"My dear, I really must be-"

"Take it," she said, holding out the drawing for him.

"What," he asked, confusion knitting his brows together. "I don't want it."

"I think we both know that's not true," she said, gently. Her eyes bore into his, shockingly observant of what he had tried to hide from her. " _Take it_ ," she insisted, pushing it toward him.

He looked back down at the drawing and reached for it, taking it in unsteady fingers. John looked back at him, sad and wretched, and Sherlock held him carefully, afraid he would crumble at his touch.

"You should go back to him," said the woman, and Sherlock met her eyes again. She smiled kindly at him. "It's clear you miss him. I think he misses you, too." She nodded at the drawing. "Not many people look like that when thinking of someone. Even fewer wear the exact same expression when thinking of each other."

Sherlock didn't need to look at his own face on the paper to know how he looked when thinking of John, but her words seemed too good, too extraordinary, to be true about John.

She seemed to be reading his mind.

"Don't doubt what your eyes tell you," she said. "He misses you. Go back to him. Start over." She patted his arm gently. "Tell him how you feel."

Then she left, passing out of his life as suddenly as she had passed into it.

Author's Note:

So the part at the very top in meant to be text messages between Sherlock and Mycroft after the events of this chapter. Sherlock is in italics and Mycroft is in bold.

Thank you for reading.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Florence, Italy

He climbed the stairs slowly, feet heavy on the aged wooden planks that groaned beneath his weight. The walls, paper thin and chipping paint, did little to abate the music blaring from the night club next door. He occupied a small room on the third floor, and the motel was ancient, but lodging was cheap, the internet connection was decent, and nobody asked any questions. It was the perfect hideout, and he was tired. At least for the next few hours he could sleep in relative peace without fear of being disturbed.

The ancient copper key to his room required a bit of maneuvering in the lock (forcefully inserted and then a slight lift before a turn), but he let himself in with little trouble. The music from the nightclub bumped and pounded loudly, accompanied by a bass beat that he felt through the floorboards and rattled items set atop the few surfaces around the room. He had moved the only lamp to the floor his very first night after it had bounced right off the small bedside table, the bulb shattering and throwing the already gloomy room into darkness. An oil painting of a bowl of waxed fruit had also been taken down to avoid any other accidents (he had positioned it facing the wall so that he wouldn't have to look at the mediocre job the 'artist' had done). Otherwise, the room was quite empty save for the tiny bed (more of a cot, really) and the lone chest of drawers. The communal toilet was down the hall.

Sherlock didn't even bother to turn on the lamp. He simply fell, fully clothed, into bed with a grunt. Christ, he was exhausted. He had chased Moriarty's man (mid-40s, dark hair, shorter than him but, apparently, rather fit) around the city for a kilometer before managing to catch him. He was offered a considerable amount of money to change his allegiance, and he had spat in Sherlock's face, sneering something about trust between employer and employees. Freelancers were always most loyal to the highest payer; some were easy to persuade, but others, unfortunately, had a misplaced sense of loyalty that required a bit of extra incentive to forget. A well-placed threat (something about a woman currently under witness protection at the American Embassy in Egypt) and the man had folded, slipping away quickly and vanishing down a dark alley.

 _Sentiment_ Sherlock thought scornfully as he kicked off his shoes. _How very boring._

He would've fallen asleep right then, but he reached inside his jacket to the hidden breast pocket instead, pulling out a folded sheet of crumpled, worn paper. He unfolded it and held it under the faint light from the street, examining the drawing upon it. John Watson looked past him, sad, lonely, and broken, sitting on a seat several hundred kilometers away from him. Sherlock had memorized every detail of the drawing long ago, but it had become a sort of ritual to study it every night, as if there was something he had overlooked. But the image remained the same, every curve and hard edge as familiar to him as his own mind.

The image has stirred things inside of him that he had never known existed, flashed of guilt, a bubbling of anger, and something else he couldn't quite identify, or didn't have the confidence or experience to name. Mostly he felt fear, fear for John and his well-being, fear of losing the only friend he had, dear of what that unidentified feeling really was…

A voice in his head, sounding aggravatingly like Mycroft, whispered _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._

He folded the paper up again and returned it to his breast pocket, refusing to think about what it meant that he held it so close to his heart, and firmly pushed away his emotions. He closed his eyes and wiped his mind clear of all thought. The beat of the music next door soon matched the rhythm of his heartbeat, pulling him inevitably into sleep where shadows of John Watson lurked and whispered secrets in his ear.

 **Author's Note:**

 **There are two things I wish to apologize for this time around:**

 **1\. It's bee a while since I've posted, and will probably be a while until I post again. Full-time work, though beneficial in paying the bills, is very time consuming, and I can't find much time to write.**

 **2\. This chapter is very short. Again, that work thing is getting in the way.**

 **Until next time. Thank you for reading.**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Istanbul, Turkey

His feet slapped the pavement in a rhythmic pattern, each step on the unforgiving ground sending a jolt up his legs that reverberated in his joints. The wind whipped past his face, drowning out all sound as it filled his ears. Blood rushed through him, pumped with adrenaline, and his heartbeat was loud in his ears, rendering him almost entirely deaf to the sounds around him.

He was gaining ground on his target as she weaved in and out of the crowded streets, but he was at a disadvantage: this wasn't his city, these weren't his people, they were hers. She as an expert; he was simply surviving. So when she dipped back into the crowd and did not reappear, he knew she had evaded him. Again. He looked around himself, spinning in a slow circle, but he cold not determine where she had gone.

Swearing under his breath, he quickly moved into a side street, already planning his next move. She couldn't have gotten far. Perhaps if he…

A small sound, barely audible, behind him was the only warning he received. He turned sharply and dodged a shining silver blade, but he felt it prick the shell of his ear. He hissed, more out of anger than pain, and batted the knife away, sinking into a low, protective crouch.

The woman, a Turkish assassin named Berna Marangoz, stood opposite him looking almost bored, three small knives sticking out of her hand like extra fingers. She, like him, was tall and lean with dark hair that she had pulled back and out of her dark eyes. Most of her head and face was hidden behind a sand-colored scarf, but her expression was read easily enough: he was an easy kill, and she would take care of him quickly.

"Why have you followed me today?" she asked in Turkish, her eyes searching him curiously. "When we spoke the other day, I refused to make a deal. I have not changed my mind."

"You did not allow me to name a figure," Sherlock replied. "You may decide taking my deal is worth your while."

"Keep your money," she said, and Sherlock could hear the sneer in her words. "I am not so petty to betray my country for money." She clenched her fists angrily, the small knives glinting as they caught the light.

"Is there nothing I can offer you?" Sherlock ventured, cocking his head, eyes scanning her carefully. There was very little data he could see, but there had to be something.

"Nothing whatsoever," she said firmly.

Sherlock internally sighed. So it had come to this again. Pity. Mycroft would be disappointed.

She made the first move, lunging for him with incredible speed and deadly intent. He moved, albeit slower, and just barely avoided a split abdomen from the three finger-like knives in the assassin's fist. He spun away, agility his only ally, but his opponent followed. She moved gracefully, like a dancer upon the stage, wielding death in her hand. She slashed and lunged, and he kept spinning away, the reluctant partner to their shared waltz. He didn't have her speed, and each blow became harder to parry. Before long, he stopped trying to block her and simply moved, waiting for an opening.

The first wound opened shallow on his left forearm. The sleeve of his jacket and shirt took the brunt of the damage.

The second wound was a stab to his right shoulder, deflected from her intended target at his clavicle. It sank deep, bringing a grunt to his lips and quickly staining his clothes crimson.

The third wound stung his palm as he deflected another slash.

The fourth wound opened on his thigh, making his leg tremble and almost buckle. He staggered then, lost his balance, and the assassin pressed her advantage. She brought the butt of a knife down on his temple, dazing him and bringing him efficiently to his knees. His vision blurred and swayed, and she stepped around him smoothly.

The fifth, sixth, and seventh wounds happened simultaneously. The three knives slashed down from his right shoulder to his left hip, ripping into his back with enough force to scatter drops of blood on the ground. The knives were sharp and they cut deep, his body arching away from the contact and his head snapping back as a ragged scream tore itself out of his throat. He fell forward onto his hands, all fight abandoning him. His left arm shook violently under his weight, but his right shoulder buckled first, the pain too much on the rapidly bleeding hole that had been out there earlier. His face hit the dirt, hard.

Marangoz was on him immediately, turning him onto his back and pressing a knee forcefully into his gut. The slashes on his back ground painfully into the dirt beneath him, He gritted his teeth around another groan, willing himself to focus on the blade now digging into his throat.

"You fight poorly," the assassin said, no trace of fatigue in her voice even as he breathed raggedly. He saw no emotion in her eyes either. His death would be quick and would mean nothing to her.

What she did next, however, was something he did not expect. She removed the blade from his throat. His shock gave him pause, and even his pain was momentarily forgotten as the assassin unbuttoned his shirt and exposed his bare chest. Through his blurred vision, he thought he saw her eyes soften. He could quiet words coming from behind the scarf, sounding almost like a prayer.

"To no soul will Allah grant respite when the time appointed for it has come," she whispered. "And Allah is well-acquainted with all that ye do."

The blade cut into the skin of his chest, and he was wrenched back to reality. She was cutting into him. No… she was _carving_ something into his skin, calm and meticulous and almost… worshipful. When she spoke again, he knew she spoke to him.

"My appointed time did not come yet," she said. "Our dance was not my last. I will live to die another day, at Allah's command." She finished carving whatever it was into his skin and moved her knife back to his throat. She looked directly into his eyes.

"Your day of judgement has arrived," she said. "Embrace the destroyer of light." The pressure at his throat increased…

"Get off him!"

Marangoz looked up, her eyes searching for the speaker. There was a metallic click, followed closely by a whistling sound, and the assassin's head jerked backward with enough force to give her whiplash. Her face bore an expression of shock, her eyes and mouth open wide, like the hole now burned into the center of her forehead. She stayed upright for a long moment before collapsing right on top of Sherlock. The full weight of her body took his breath from him and pushed the wounds on his back even harder into the dirt. Tears pricked his eyes at the pain of it and he struggled to breathe.

His vision blurred again, his body finally surrendering after the stress of the past half hour. Time, already a relative concept, no longer held any meaning. The world swam in and out of focus, showing first the alleyway, then a crowded street, and then more alleyways, his feet somehow moving although he could not recall telling them to do so. When had the Marangoz been removed from his chest? Who was the person who had shot her? Was it the same person who supported him now, pressed firmly to his left side and holding his arm around broad shoulders?

Sherlock tried to focus, blinking his eyes rapidly at the stranger and attempting to make sense of what he saw with a mind gone quite delirious with pain. He could not see a face (it was turned away from him), but he could see a full head of short-cropped blonde hair. The man was smaller than Sherlock, but he was clearly very strong, supporting almost all of the detective's weight on this journey they were making. When he spoke, it was with unquestioning authority, parting the crowds around them with short barks. But when he spoke to Sherlock, his voice was calm and reassuring.

"Not far now. We're almost there. You'll be alright."

 _John_ …

Sherlock's sudden elation at seeing his best friend was so great that his knees threatened to give out. A strong arm around his waist flexed powerfully against the sudden shift. It was John. John was here. How did he get here? When did he get here? How had he known where to find Sherlock? Dozens of questions raced around in his head, but he didn't care about any of them right now. All he wanted was to rejoice in the knowledge that John Watson, his protector and savior, had found him and saved him again.

John was here.

John had saved him.

John was everything.

When he awoke, he was sprawled on a bed in a small room with only one window. Sunlight streamed in through it and illuminated a patch of clay wall on the other side of the room. A rough cloth pillow dug patterns into his face, and he could feel blankets covering his legs. His back was exposed to the warm air. The sticky feeling of dried blood and the smell of herbal medicine led him to a conclusion: doctor's home, wounds cleaned and bandaged.

Sherlock let his eyes roam around the small room, taking in the furniture and the rug upon the stone floor. Bottles of medicine and bandages covered the tiny bedside table, and more bandages, stained with (his) blood, lay in a heap in the opposite corner. So he'd been here long enough to need his dressings changed, perhaps 24 hours. From the angle of the sunlight on the wall, he judged it was close to 11:00 in the morning.

Movement near the door brought his eyes to a figure upon a woven chair, arms crossed and chin pressed to his chest in slumber. The figure was familiar, the short-cropped blonde hair and golden skin that of the man who had helped him the previous day. John. Sherlock's chest filled with a kind of giddy excitement, the urge to laugh almost entirely overwhelming, and the smile he felt tugging at his lips was wider than he had felt it in over a year.

But with the happiness also came the doubt. Those questions that had flooded his pain-delirious mind earlier came back, sharp and clear and demanding his attention. How _had_ John known where to find him, that he was in danger, that he was _alive_? Sherlock had been very careful, had left instructions for Mycroft that _no one_ outside of the few who were involved in his "suicide" was to know he was still alive, and even fewer were to know where he was at any given time. So how could this man be the one person whom he needed most but could never know that he was alive? How could he be John?

Upon closer inspection, with eyes sharper than they had been before, Sherlock located every flaw, every clue that made this man different. Like John, he was a military man, as was indicated in his posture and his strength. Like John, he was tanned from sun exposure in a desert climate. Like John, his hair was blonde and cropped in a military style. Like John, he was prepared to kill when Sherlock was in danger… Unlike John, his military training had been much more recent. Unlike John, his skin was too golden to have been living in London for over a year. Unlike John, his hair was full and free of grey. This man was too tall, too young, too fresh off the plane from a war zone to be John. No, not John… Mycroft's man, sent to follow Sherlock in case of too much danger.

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed, feeling his happiness plummet and settle somewhere around his navel, turning into a black, brooding mess. John hadn't come for him. That had been a ridiculous hope. The only way he could ever see John again was if he deconstructed Moriarty's web, took it apart strand by sticky strand until there was nowhere else the spider could turn. Then and only then, could he reveal himself again.

Sherlock willed himself to fall back to sleep, having gone several days without it before his fight and needing his body to heal properly after the wounds he had accumulated. He tried not to think about the feeling in his gut, unraveling the ropes of disappointment and longing into his body. He tried not to think about the drawing the American woman had given him and the words she had spoken. He tried not to think about how desperately he had wanted to take John's face in his hands, look deep into his deep blue eyes, and taste his lips…

 **Author's Note:**

 **Ok, so I did some research for this chapter. I wanted the assassin to have a kind of ritual that she performed before every kill, and so I took some quotes from the Quran. The symbol she was carving into Sherlock's chest was the star and crescent, an ancient symbol of Islam and the Ancient Near East.**

 **Again, I apologize for the time it takes me to post. This chapter came a lot quicker than the last, but no promises for upcoming chapters.**

 **Thank you for reading.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:**

 **So sorry it took me so long to update! Things have been crazy at work lately. Anyway, here is the next addition to my (slightly longer than anticipated) story. Enjoy!**

 **Thank you for reading.**

Chapter 4: Kandahar, Afghanistan

There were three bullet holes in the clay that made up the walls of his room. Three bullet holes to indicate that the room, the inn, and the city were unsafe. Three 5.56mm holes that reminded him, every time he saw them, that he was in a war zone: dangerous, unforgiving, and deadly.

The holes arced upward, two at the top of the far wall, one in the ceiling above, as if shot in rapid succession in an upward motion. Automatic weapons, particularly the M-16 rifles carried by British and American soldiers, were designed for quick, efficient shots, and three stray bullets could have easily traveled through the small window into his room. In fact, considering all of the variables (he was on the second floor and his window was small, facing the studied section of the wall and ceiling), that was the most likely cause. Somehow, those three bullets had found their way into his room, serving as a constant reminder, a chilling warning.

Three bullet holes to remind him of the war outside those clay walls, and all he could think about was John Watson.

What had caused the bullets to pass through his window in the first place? Who had fired them? Had it been intentional or accidental?

Had John ever walked by that inn on patrol of the city? Did he know why those shots had been fired? Had he been the one to fire them?

No way to tell.

Had the shooter been trying to capture someone? Had they succeeded? Who had that target been? Why were they important? Or had the shots simply been a result of a passing skirmish outside, flying through the window and frightening the occupant?

Did John still dream about his time at war in that very city? Did he think about his experiences with fondness or trepidation? Did he wake up screaming in the middle of the night, echoes of gunfire and shouting voices in his ears? Did he lie awake for hours afterward, picturing the desert and battlefields and war wounds and death?

Did the hole in John's shoulder look anything like the holes in the walls? Did the scar tissue around his wound resemble the cracks in the clay? Was the pain still present on cold, rainy days in London, even under the woolen jumpers and warm layers? Had the ghostly pain hovering over his leg settled once more on the non-existent wound? Had the limp returned, bringing with it the infernal cane?

Had John moved on at all?

Had he found happiness once more in this cruel world?

Or had the loss of his friend, the fraudulent detective who jumped to his death, caused him to regress into the horrible, gray abyss he had lived in after the war?

Had Sherlock Holmes, in an effort to save John Watson, instead broken him forever?

No way to tell.

Sherlock screamed in frustration, picking up the nearest object (a teacup, its contents long cooled) and hurling it across the room. It collided with the wall and burst into a million tiny pieces, all raining down to the floor in a ceramic rhythm. What remained of his tea dripped quietly down the wall. It was dreadfully unsatisfying and did nothing to quell his urge to hurl something else around, something bigger…

John would have called it a bloody waste of perfectly good tea.

The desk chair followed the mug across the room, smashing in almost exactly the same spot on the wall and toppling noisily to the floor, a single leg dislodged.

"Stop it, stop it, Stop! It!" he growled to himself, seizing his hair tightly in both fists and pulling angrily. He turned away from the wreckage before him and paced. He had to get a grip on himself. He had to calm down. He had to stop _thinking_!

 _You need sleep. You haven't so much as closed your eyes in days._

The voice, so helpfully provided by his fantastic mind, was laden with concern, ever the good and watchful doctor…

"Shut up, John!" Sherlock snarled, spinning quickly and throwing himself down on the bed, face up.

God, why couldn't he just focus? For hours, he'd tried to fix his mind upon the task he'd undertaken. Photographs and notes lay scattered all over the room: targets he'd managed to "intercept" from Moriarty's expansive network were stacked neatly on the floor by the bed; informants and prospects who were yet to be captured were taped up on the wall for his perusal, notes and maps of cities interwoven together in a pattern only he could decipher; exterminated assets were thrown onto the desk, face down. Those people, many of whom had died at his hand, were no longer of any consequence.

The Turkish assassin, Berna Marangoz, was among that pile. The wounds she had given him, barely healed, throbbed at the mere thought of her. Absently, he reached up to feel the depression in his right shoulder where her knife had sunk deep, brushing his fingers over the hole. She had left him scarred, just like the war had left John scarred; they were victims of violence, both of them, receiving their blemishes while attempting to save others…

 _You've really begun to worry me_.

Sherlock covered his face with his hands, but he knew it was no use. His mind, ever his ally in times of crisis, had finally betrayed him. No matter how hard he tried, nothing could distract him. Everywhere he looked, everything he thought of, inevitably led him back to John. God, he had been so _stupid_ to come here, to a place so closely associated with war, with his ex-flatmate. Everything reminded him of John. _Everything_. No wonder he couldn't concentrate.

Something tickled his consciousness, feather-light yet insistent. It nagged at him, hovering at the edges of his mind during wakefulness and creeping slowly inward while he slept. Since the incident in Turkey, it had become almost unbearable, threatening to inundate his mind even as it pounded at his chest and clawed at his ribs. It was a contradictory feeling, familiar and unfamiliar at once, a combination of excitement, fear, longing, fondness, admiration, and frustration all wrapped up into one solid yet intangible mass inside him, coiling and recoiling almost painfully. He turned onto his side as a wave of nausea rolled through him. A soft groan left his mouth as he attempted to hold it at bay.

 _Maybe it's time you stop fighting it_ whispered John. _Let it take over, just for a little while…_

John could always make even the most absurd suggestion sound like a good idea. He was funny that way. From the beginning, Sherlock had been stuck by just how easily John had fit into his life, had molded his own life around Sherlock's, how well they had got on, even through Sherlock's worse moods, how quickly John had become integral to everything. This man, a small, seemingly broken ex-army doctor, was a marvel, at moments completely ordinary and predictable, at others entirely surprising and inspiring, but always steadfast, intelligent, and kindhearted. If not for John Watson, Sherlock's life would not have been worth living. He was remarkable.

 _Amazing…_

Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

Sherlock opened his eyes and blinked at the wall beside the bed. Could it really be that simple? This nagging feeling, including all of the accompanying emotions spiraling within, was something he had most certainly felt before. That was why it was familiar. He felt that way about certain people: his parents, his brother, Mrs. Hudson. But the specific thing he felt now was centered entirely around John, glowing incandescent and bringing back that giddiness he had felt in Istanbul when he thought John had saved him. He knew what it was, that thought, that emotion, but he hadn't been able to face it, hadn't been able to acknowledge what it was, even in the privacy of his own thoughts. Now, after allowing it to simply penetrate his mind, he was finally ready to face it.

He was in love with John Watson.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:**

 **Hello everyone. Here is my next installment. I hope you enjoy it.**

 **Also, do any of you fantastic readers have comments about this sad little story? If so, I'd really love to hear them. Please write reviews and/or message me about it! I don't care if you love it or hate it, any kind of feedback is welcome.**

 **Thank you for reading.**

 **-Break-**

Chapter 6: London, England

He had been away far too long. He had almost forgotten just how wonderful London, _his_ city, was, and two years was most certainly too long. His work dismantling Moriarty's network had taken him all over the globe: America, Columbia, India, China, and on one memorable occasion, South Africa. He had done what he had set out to do, and London embraced him like an old friend, familiar and comfortable and right. After all those months running around in foreign and dangerous places, he was finally home.

If only John had been so forgiving.

Upon reflection, Sherlock wasn't sure he had known what to expect when he revealed himself to John. He had hoped for something pleasant, a double-take, shock and disbelief, followed by a relieved smile. Perhaps there might have been tears, although that hadn't really been high on the list of possibilities. But anger… anger was something he had known was inevitable (he had been away for two years, after all), but true to his character, John continued to surprise him. His anger, though expected, far exceeded anything Sherlock had foreseen. At first he had tried to speak calmly, Captain Watson attempting to stay in control of the situation, and Sherlock had seen a glimpse of what hid behind John's eyes: shock, wonder and relief all swirled together in an endless ebb and flow, but they were quickly overtaken by a tidal wave of sadness, grief, and hurt. They crashed over everything, consuming the others within a large mass of ice. The final layer was a striking mask of anger that changed John's entire countenance, stiffening his muscles, clenching his fists, and tightening his jaw.

Sherlock hated when Mycroft was right. His older brother had told him that John had moved out of Baker Street, that he had got on with his life, and like an idiot, Sherlock hadn't believed him. How could John have moved on when the crumpled picture folded in his pocket told such a different story? John was devastated. John was miserable.

Sherlock had been a fool for believing it.

So, he allowed John his anger; he made a stupid comment about John's new mustache (really, it was a dreadful thing, making the poor man look ancient), and he allowed John to tackle him to the ground of the French restaurant despite having been beaten to a pulp in Serbia very recently. He did not attempt to stop John even when the waiters struggled to pull John off of him. He did not object to John's newest girlfriend leading him away, talking him down in a soothing tone. He accepted his punishment because it was what he deserved. The thundercloud of anger on John's face did not abate for the remained of the evening, and Sherlock deserved that too. He deserved everything John threw at him because he had lied, because he had died, because he had caused John this pain. He was despicable.

Two more restaurants, a split lip, and a bloodied nose later, as John attempted to get a cab, Sherlock stood on the curb with John's girlfriend. Sherlock was ready to dismiss her, already forming plans to get rid of her once and for all, when she surprised him. She said she would talk to John, bring him 'round, make him forgive Sherlock. Sherlock hadn't expected that, and a quick look told him everything about her (Mary). She appeared to like him despite her dinner and her evening being ruined.

As she turned away to John's call, Sherlock realized several things at once:

1\. John loved Mary, and Sherlock couldn't bring himself to hat her.

2\. The conversation he had interrupted at the restaurant had been the beginning of a proposal.

3\. There was nothing Sherlock could do about it because Mary was perfect for John.

In that moment, watching John and Mary ride away in a cab, Sherlock felt his heart dissolve into shreds. The love he had so recently discovered for his friend was unrequited, and it would remain that way forever because John had moved on. In the two years since Sherlock's "suicide," John had moved out of 221 B, gotten a new job, and found a new partner. He was creating distance between his life with Sherlock and the life he was currently living. That meant that Sherlock had no place in it, hadn't had a right to walk into it and upset his newfound happiness. For all intents and purposes, Sherlock Holmes was dead to John Watson, and despite Mary's comforting promise, it did not appear that that would change. If that was how John wanted to live, Sherlock would oblige. He owed him that much.

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Sherlock tried his best to ignore the pain emanating from his chest, resigning himself to the fact that he would never see John Watson again.

-Break-

It seemed the redemption Sherlock was meant to achieve, the pain he was meant to endure for his crimes, had not yet been satisfied. Life was cruel that way, constantly reminding him of his sins.

The very next night, Mary appeared at Baker Street with a bothersome e-mail that turned out to be an alarming warning to save John Watson. Despite the drawn out conversation, the frustration, the apologies, and the eventual dismissal he had received the night before, despite having accepted the harsh reality of life separate from his closest friend, Sherlock found himself, quite literally, dropping everything and flying to John's aid with Mary close at his heels. He forced himself to push aside the panic bubbling rapidly in his throat and focus on the best course of action, the fastest route, and the time ticking quickly by.

It was a motorbike and some rather bumpy paths that led him to the bonfire at St. James the Less Church. Sherlock could barely breathe for his panic upon realizing that John was _inside_ it, beneath the steadily growing flames licking their way greedily up the kerosene-soaked branches. Sherlock decided, in that moment, that however John felt about him, Sherlock _would not_ allow him to die without first getting his forgiveness. He may be doomed to love a man who would never feel the same way, but he couldn't continue to live any kind of life knowing that John had died hating him.

It was over within minutes. Sherlock and Mary had sprinted to the fire, and both of them had clawed desperately at the wood until John was revealed, drugged and disoriented. They dragged him out of harm's way, and after assuring himself that John was alright, Sherlock had moved away to allow Mary to worry over John's unconscious form. That wasn't his job, not matter how he longed for it. It never had been his job to worry after John's well-being, to fuss over the smallest cuts and bruises, to touch unabashedly under the pretext of concern and love. He swallowed back the lump in his throat and ignored the aching throb in his chest that came from his already shattered heart. The important thing was that John was alive. He must be content in that knowledge.

The following day, the kidnapping seemed a blessing in disguise after all. It had finally brought John to Baker Street, his hair slightly singed above his left ear and a gash on his face, but otherwise unharmed. Sherlock internally breathed a sigh of relief. John was talking to him, and that was far better than anything Sherlock had ever hoped for. John hadn't forgiven him, not yet; only time would heal those wounds. They would live to walk upon the breach together once more. Sherlock decided that he would choose his battles with care.

-Break-

It was a bomb that finally earned him John's forgiveness.

The imminent terrorist attack which had allowed him to return to London took prescient over the remainder of the day. Sherlock had narrowed down the suspect as Lord Moran, Minister of Overseas Development, and the location, the Tower of London and the Parliament Building, and it left him leading John down an underground maintenance tunnel to an abandoned tube station at Sumatra Road. There, they found the train car that had mysteriously disappeared on the security video. There, they found it rigged with enough explosives to take down everything within a kilometer radius. Although at first it lay dormant, the lights flickered on and the timer began its inevitable countdown from two minutes and thirty seconds within minutes of their finding it.

Sherlock had never been so sorry in his life to know so little about bombs. He hadn't needed to before, and now when it was critical that he disarm one, he had the man he loved with him, too close to be safe, with too little time to get away.

John was angry again, understandably so. He knew the situation he was in: they were too far away from civilization to warn anyone, the police weren't there to help, and Sherlock's brain was utterly useless. In desperation, Sherlock fell to his knees beside the bomb and began frantically searching for something, _anything_ , that could help. John couldn't die. Not now. Not after everything that had happened to make things right again. If he could just find a way to prevent this bomb… Sherlock would gladly die for real this time if it meant he could save John Watson again.

The time only kept ticking away.

And then everything changed because suddenly he knew how to stop it. There was a switch on the side, a small switch that, after he flicked it, stopped the bomb at precisely one minute and twenty-three seconds. Relieved, Sherlock smiled despite the terror he had felt only seconds before, and he decided to use the knowledge to his advantage. John thought he was dying. John was a romantic man, and in his final moments, he may just say something heartfelt, if Sherlock could coerce him to. So Sherlock apologized, sincerely, for everything that he had done to cause John any kind of pain, begging John for the forgiveness he so desperately craved. Somehow, despite his suspicion that it was a trick, John gave him just that.

"You were the best and the wisest man that I have ever known," John said, his voice thick with emotion. "Yes, _of course_ , I forgive you."

The "you idiot" was implied, but Sherlock heard it anyway, and he stared at John in disbelief. He was utterly moved. No one had ever said anything like that to him before. Tears, genuine, emotional tears, fell upon his cheeks, and he did not bother to wipe them away. In that moment, as John closed his eyes and awaited his imminent (fabricated) doom, the throbbing of Sherlock's heart, an ever-present discomfort since his return, eased fractionally. John had forgiven him. That was all he ever wanted.

That and the laughter they shared when the bomb did not explode. After all they had been through over the past few days, something close to what they had shared before his "death" returned to them, and Sherlock was determined not to lose it again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note:**

 **Hello again! I can't tell you how happy I am to be posting this chapter. Finally! Honestly, if I didn't finish it today, this chapter would have been the death of me. I had such a hard time putting my thoughts and feelings into words. Of course, the gap between this chapter and the last one was too long, so that had a lot to do with it. Anyway, here it is. I hope you enjoy it. Please forgive me for the content. I got a bit emotional. Please rate/follow/comment!**

Chapter 7:

 _So don't give a damn what they say about time_

 _Understand that a minute is sixty quick lies_

 _That deny you the right to her head on your shoulder_

 _And suddenly miles becomes weeks become older._

 _~ The Ruse by He Who Never_

Wind blew sporadically across the airfield, whipping through his dark hair and clawing at his Bellstaff in turns. It did nothing to help the growing dread he felt in his gut, nor did it numb the dull ache that had spread steadily from his chest out to the very tips of his fingers, his knees caps, and the bridge of his nose. The inevitability of this conversation, of this final and permanent goodbye, made none of it any easier, any less painful. He had prepared himself for it, had closed himself off to every pathway that led to an emotional stirring within him, but now, looking down at John Watson, preparing to leave him behind yet again but never to return to him, Sherlock used every ounce of his willpower to keep himself composed.

John didn't look much better as he stared out at the airfield, over at Mary and Mycroft, anywhere but at Sherlock, clearing his throat and determinedly keeping his hands by his sides. It was clear he was trying to avoid fidgeting, but the clench and release of his fingers gave him away.

"Yeah, I can't think of a single thing to say," John admitted, his breath leaving him in a strangled huff of laughter as he finally turned to look at Sherlock, a small smile struggling to remain on his lips.

"No," said Sherlock. He cast his eyes to the ground in disappointment, unable to meet John's gaze for long. "Neither can I."

Lies. They were lying to each other, or at least Sherlock was lying to John. In truth, they hadn't been honest with each other in months. Of course, they had talked, had seen each other regularly, but nothing meaningful had been exchanged in a very long time.

Not since the night they had found that bomb.

"You were the best and wisest man I have ever known…"

John's words from that night echoed through his mind, a moment of dazzling sunlight among the otherwise gray and shadowy landscape that was the past year of his life. It was the one moment that held any kind of true meaning for him, the only time he had ever held any hope of things returning to the way they had been before his fall, the way things should have been. Everything after that, every case, every conversation, every moment spent in John's presence and still not saying anything, had only thrust him deeper into the depression that came with heartbreak.

The fact was that Sherlock knew exactly what he wanted to say to John. He had known it for some time. The day they had met was the beginning of a slow assault on his mind, and John had carefully advanced upon each new territory. The beauty of it, though, was that in each new place he entered, John was careful to leave everything as he had left it, exactly the same in appearance, yet everything became structurally different. It was that day in Kandahar, feeling confused and vulnerable, that Sherlock had finally understood that John had conquered every available space in his mind, shifting the bricks until _he_ was the foundation upon which Sherlock stood, firm, reliable, and integral.

 _You are the most important thing in my life. You are essential to my existence. Without you, I am not OK._

There had been several moments since John and Mary's engagement when Sherlock had been tempted to say those things, when the words had nearly tumbled chaotically from behind his teeth to fill the space between them, but every time the words came to his tongue, they died on his lips, withering away without so much as a sound. Each time he tried to voice his feelings, the same questions filled his mind with anxiety: Did John know how Sherlock felt? How would John react to learning that his best friend was in love with him? Would he even care? Did John feel the same way about him?

If Sherlock had gathered the courage to tell him the truth, would it have changed anything?

So, when John had asked him to be his best man at the wedding, he had said nothing. When helping with the wedding planning, he had held his tongue. During the Stag Night, Sherlock had, thankfully, remained silent. Yet, for all of his labors and everything that he was doing for John, he was still to be punished. He had still been made to stand beside John on his wedding day and watch him make vows to another person, all the while smiling as if his heart wasn't tearing itself to pieces. Then, on top of everything else, he had deduced that Mary was pregnant, and John had danced away with her on the dancefloor, their smiles radiant.

As always, the thing that he wanted most had been dangled mockingly before his eyes, just beyond the reach of his outstretched fingertips.

Had it really been such a surprise that he had relapsed back into his drug habit that very same day?

It had been easy to convince himself that the cocaine was only for the case, a means to distract Magnussen from what really mattered to him. It had also been easy to believe that Jeanine was just a way to know Magnussen's schedule. However, if he was honest with himself, they were both simply a way of coping. His preferred dose of 7% cocaine mixed with saline freed his mind from its worldly tethers and allowed him to explore higher avenues of thinking while leaving his emotions far behind. When that began to fade, and his thoughts began to drift back to painful memories, he had found that Jeanine was surprisingly good company.

What he had taken during the ride from Baker Street wouldn't have the same effect on him. He had mixed a special cocktail the day before, careful to include not only cocaine but also heroin he had acquired from an old dealer and morphine that he had managed to salvage from his hospital stay. The result was a rather creative cocktail that he'd topped with the Scotch from Mycroft's car. He estimated that it would take approximately 14 minutes after injection for the drugs to take full effect. There was no telling how quickly his body would crash. All he knew for sure was that he most definitely wouldn't reach his destination alive.

But first there was John.

"So what about you, then?" John asked. "Where are you actually going now?"

"Oh, some undercover work in Eastern Europe," said Sherlock in a bored tone.

"For how long?"

"Six months, my brother estimates," he replied, glancing briefly in Mycroft's direction. "He's never wrong.

John nodded, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he swallowed. "And then what?"

Sherlock gazed across the few feet of distance still between them and held John's eyes, wanting to tell him, wishing he could say it. There was something in the way John had asked, in his posture, at that moment, which made Sherlock wonder if John already knew the answer to that question. Could he suspect? Had he known all along? Or was that dwindling glimmer in his eyes merely hope for an answer that Sherlock couldn't give him?

A small part of Sherlock wanted to scream at that moment. John wasn't being fair. He was looking at Sherlock in a way that only made this entire ordeal even harder to endure, like he was something he never wanted to lose, and that was entirely unfair. John was happy. John had chosen to stay with Mary after all she had done. He'd decided to go back to his lying, manipulative, treacherous wife and to hold on to the promise of a happy future with her. Sherlock had suffered a lifetime of pain in the past year, all in the name of ensuring John's lasting happiness. He'd sacrificed his own heart both literally and figuratively, and he'd accepted the fact that John would never feel the same way for him. So what right did John Watson have to look at Sherlock Holmes like that?

Maybe it was the drugs, swirling lazily through his veins and, apparently, finally beginning to numb his mind, but Sherlock's anger was short-lived and remained unspoken. This was a goodbye, the last time he would ever see John; he was not about to ruin it.

"Who knows," he said with a shrug, looking off into the distance over John's shoulder.

John nodded, and he turned away quickly, attempting to hide what Sherlock believed to be sadness. The small, barely audible sniffle that reached his ears only proved to confirm that theory. Perhaps John knew his fate after all. Perhaps that glimmer in his eyes _had been_ hope, hope for the possibility of a reunion, hope for an alternative ending. Sherlock held no such hope, and he was left feeling lost in the vast abyss of darkness that was his future.

Sherlock knew exactly what he wanted to say as he stood before his best friend on the last day of his life.

"John there's something… I should say; I-I've _meant_ to say always and then never have." John turned back to him, and he looked away. "Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now."

He paused, his heart abruptly picking up speed within him. He felt his entire body begin to shiver, although it had nothing to do with the wind, while at the same time sweat was beginning to bead at the back of his neck. His hands shook behind his back, and he clasped them together firmly. He had to say this before it was too late, but his body was protesting, or perhaps these involuntary actions were its way of encouraging him. He swallowed, his mouth abnormally dry. He would say it. He took a deep breath through his nose and looked back up into John's cobalt eyes.

 _I love you._

"Sherlock is actually a girl's name."

It was almost worth it to see John laugh one last time. His breath left him in a near-silent giggle as he turned away, the smile on his lips full and creasing his face. Sherlock couldn't stop the grin that found its way to his lips at the sight. He fought, hard, to keep his tears at bay as his heart wavered in sorrow.

How could he confess to John now? It would be cruel, selfish really, to tell John how he felt. Sherlock was leaving him forever. This was for the best. He would leave John this way, happy and laughing, and with any luck Mycroft would keep the truth of his death to himself.

Lies. He had told his last lie, and it had denied him what he wanted all over again.

The drugs were more insistent now, and Sherlock turned away from the man he loved, the warmth of his fingers the last gift he would ever receive from John Watson. It lingered on his skin when Sherlock entered the plane, tingled his palm as the plane took off, and electrified his fingertips as he brought up John's blog on his mobile. He could feel his body betraying him now, heard the organs and fluids moving too sluggishly as his heart began to race again, but still that warmth lingered, the very distraction he needed to keep his mind off of his fear. He would die remembering John Watson.

The game was over.

Did you miss me?

 **I promise, this story will end happily!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note:**

 **Hello everyone. I'm so happy to be posting again. I know, it's been far too long. Unfortunately, working is what keeps my bills paid, so writing falls to the wayside.**

 **Anyway, here is my next installment. Just a bit of forewarning: this is the chapter where I seriously begin to deviate from the cannon story. Most of the events of series 4 will not occur in my story. This chapter takes place after Mary's death, but she never leaves a DVD message for Sherlock or John, and Sherlock never decides to attack Culverton Smith. I hope you enjoy it. Please leave your comments and/or message me about the story. Really, I love getting feedback.**

 **Thank you for reading.**

Chapter 8: Yesterday

 _Suddenly, I'm not half the man I used to be._

 _There's a shadow hanging over me._

 _Oh yesterday came suddenly._

 _~ Yesterday by The Beatles_

The car was idling by the curb when he got outside. Sleek, black, seemingly innocent, it waited patiently for him to arrive. John rolled his eyes. When would Mycroft get it? John wasn't going to see him, no matter what he did.

For weeks, John had been, for lack of a better word, stalked by the elder Holmes brother. At first, he had been subtle, almost polite, sending John texts asking him to keep an appointment at the Diogenes Club. When John refused to respond to or even acknowledge the texts, they became more frequent until he would receive a text every hour reminding him of an appointment he did not wish to attend. John ignored them all, deleting each one on sight without reading them.

Then the phone calls had started.

John got called at all hours of the day: when he was with a patient, when he was in the loo, even when he was "sleeping." There was no way Mycroft could know he wasn't sleeping… could he? John became paranoid each time the phone rang, wondering if Mycroft was watching his every move. He was certainly capable of that. John spent hours sifting through his house and his office at work in search of hidden cameras and microphones. After the fifth time he did this, he turned his phone off indefinitely.

Next had come the cars. They followed him wherever he went, idling by the curb or driving steadily beside him as he walked. He would get odd looks or even comments from strangers on the street who took notice of the strange behavior. He ignored it all, trying not to let his anger tempt him into actually going to see Mycroft if only to tell him to piss off in person.

As it was, at the sight of yet another car awaiting him this morning, John was very close to doing just that.

John turned to leave, fully intending to ignore the car yet again, but he found his way blocked by a rather large man in a very expensive-looking suit.

"Oh, come on, you really have nothing better to do with your time than bully me into your car?" John asked, exasperated. He turned the other way, planning out an escape route, but another man, equal in bulk but not in height to the first man, stepped forward to meet him.

"Perfect," John muttered. "You know what? I'll be fine on my own, thanks mates. You can go tell your boss that if he wants to see me, he can come see me himself, yeah?"

The back window of the car slowly rolled down, revealing the man himself. Mycroft wore a pristine pinstriped three-piece suit, and he seemed as aloof as ever as he stared straight ahead, seemingly at the seat in front of him. He never turned to look at John as he said coolly, "Get into the car, Dr. Watson."

"Piss off, Mycroft," said John.

It was satisfying to express that thought aloud to Mycroft Holmes, quite possibly the most powerful and, therefore, dangerous man in the country, but Mycroft's lack of response left something to be desired. John contemplated leaving, then, but the two men beside him gave him pause. How far did their orders go exactly?

Mycroft appeared to have had the same thought. "Refusing to speak with me won't do any good," he said, still addressing the seat in front of him. "I plan to have this discussion in a civilized manner, but do not doubt that, if you force me to, I will strip you of your pride first."

The men beside John both tensed at these words. John could almost hear their jaws tightening and their arm muscles flexing beneath their expensive suits. He looked at Suit #1: large, imposing, clearly combat trained. Probably MI6. At 5'6", John was at least a head shorter than the man, and he suspected at least two stone lighter. John was a military man, he had been trained in hand-to-hand combat, and he wasn't a bad fighter by any standards, but this man would quickly overpower him. Suit #2 was shorter but just as threatening. Would defying Mycroft be worth getting his arse handed to him in a fight with these two?

John got into the car.

Suit #1 and Suit #2 got into the front of the car. The partition was up, but John heard them murmuring to each other as the driver started the engine and glided smoothly into London traffic. John watched the city begin to slide by out the window.

"My answer is 'no'," he said to the windowpane.

"I haven't asked you a question," Mycroft replied.

"Don't treat me like an idiot, Mycroft," John said coldly, his teeth clenching in his mouth. "We both know why you've been trying to talk to me all this time. I'm saying 'no'."

"There's no need to be so dramatic, John, I've simply stated a fact."

John looked over at Mycroft incredulously. "Dramatic?" he asked. "You pulled that bollocks with your two henchmen back there and I'm the one being dramatic?"

"Mmm," said Mycroft, a smile ghosting his lips. "Clearly your escapades with my brother have given you a taste for it. He always was the emotional one."

John turned away again, not willing to begin this discussion so soon.

"Have you spoken to Sherlock since the burial?" Mycroft asked casually, but John could feel the familiar intense gaze on the back of his head.

John said nothing, refusing to take the bait. He knew that Mycroft had been watching him, at least publicly, ever since Mary's death. He hadn't set foot anywhere near Baker Street in weeks, and he had taken great care to let Sherlock know exactly how he felt about seeing him. He wasn't forgiven, not by a long shot, and that wasn't about to change. As far as John was concerned, Sherlock was back to the way his life had been before they had met, and that was all John really needed to know. He figured his life could use a bit less danger, a bit more stability, for Rosie's sake.

And if a small part of John thought that he was being just a bit unfair to Sherlock, it was pushed very far into the back of his mind and ignored, even when it did jump up and down and wave its arms about like a guerilla throwing a tantrum.

 _Brilliant_ he thought. _Now I'm imagining frantic guerillas in my head. What's next? The bloody Dali Lama in a dress?_

"He misses you," Mycroft continued next to him, perfectly ignorant of what was happening in John's head. "He hasn't been himself since Mary's death."

"Yeah, well, I really don't see the point in talking to him just yet," John said. "So, whether you're going to ask me or not, I'll repeat my answer: I'm not talking to Sherlock."

There was silence in the car for a few moments. It was not the comfortable, easy silence that settled between friends. It was a substantial silence, one that seemed to anticipate danger ahead. John still hadn't turned from the window, but he no longer paid any attention to the world outside the car. He could hear Mycroft breathing beside him, but he could not gage what he was thinking from the act.

Mycroft was always cool and collected, never allowing his emotions to emerge or cloud his impeccable logic and reasoning. At least, that was the impression John had been given in all his experiences with the man. The next words that issued from Mycroft's mouth, therefore, shocked John.

"I admit that I'm greatly disappointed in you, John," Mycroft said, although disappointment was not the tone John was detecting in his voice. "I had hoped that you would be above this sort of petty, childish behavior, but now I see that I've been wholly mistaken."

"How am I being petty and childish?" John asked, turning to face Mycroft in indignation.

"You're blaming Sherlock for what happened to Mary," Mycroft said, anger sharpening his words. "That is both irrational and false."

"Oh, are you a therapist now?" John shot back, a fair amount of anger behind his own words. "Sorry, I've already got one, so I don't really need your services."

"Clearly you do considering that your own therapist hasn't managed to convince you that you're transferring your guilt over Mary onto Sherlock," Mycroft argued. "All of those sessions must be very disappointing if she can't make you see reason."

John clenched his jaw. Of course his sessions were disappointing. They always had been, but Mycroft didn't need his confirmation of that fact. "Sherlock is the one who dug into AGRA," he said. "It's _his_ fault she had to run. It's _his_ fault she was at the aquarium!"

"And it's _her_ fault that she is dead!" Mycroft finished, his voice rising. "The way I witnessed it, John, that bullet was aimed at my brother, not Mary. _She_ decided to take it for him, not the other way 'round."

John was shaking his head, not wanting to hear this. In his mind, the guerilla was throwing a tantrum again, jumping and waving and becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

Mycroft continued. "As for the AGRA business, I understand my brother's interference made very little difference. Mary would have reached the same conclusion, and the result would have been the same. In my own opinion, Mary took that bullet to settle a personal score." He looked hard at John and sneered. "Wasn't she the one who shot Sherlock first? I recall that you took a considerable amount of time to forgive her for that."

John reacted before rational thought could intercede. His fists were already clenched in anger at Mycroft's words, and he swung his left arm forward with the intention of striking hard. His fist came up short, however, when the car jolted to a sudden halt. John was thrown forward, having never secured his seatbelt, and the back of his head slammed against the driver's seat. He found himself sprawled in a heap on the floor, dazed.

Distantly, John could hear the driver, Suit #1, addressing Mycroft. He didn't hear an answer. He struggled to sit upright on the floor, blinking rapidly to clear his blurred vision. His head throbbed with a dull ache where it had struck the seat, and John reached up to probe the smarting area. He wouldn't have a concussion, but he was already feeling the effects of the resultant headache.

"That won't be necessary," Mycroft said.

Confused, John looked up at the man only to see Suit #2 looking down on him, his face impassive as he held a gun steadily to John's head. He was still in the front passenger seat, his body turned awkwardly, but there was no doubt in John's mind that his shot would find its mark effortlessly. John raised his hands in the universal sign for surrender, his eyes never leaving the gun.

"Wilson," Mycroft said, his voice as calm as ever. "Don't make me repeat myself."

Suit #2, Wilson apparently, slowly removed his gun from view. John released his breath when he heard the soft click of the safety bar being set back in place. Wilson's eyes were still on him, a threat lingering as the partition was slowly rolled up again.

"Come sit back down, John," Mycroft said, gesturing to the empty seat that John had so unceremoniously vacated a moment before.

John moved warily, always aware of the partition and the seemingly nonexistent protection it now provided him. He sat, securing his seatbelt this time, then turned his attention back to Mycroft, who was again staring straight ahead at the seat before him.

"John, you're an intelligent man," Mycroft said. "You must know that your argument has no merit."

John said nothing, unwilling to yield.

"Normally, I wouldn't attempt to talk you out of your anger, if for no other reason than self-preservation," Mycroft continued. "However, circumstances demand my interference. My brother seems to believe the falsehood that he has killed your late wife."

"Good," John grumbled to himself, crossing his arms over his chest. Mycroft's admonishing look was sharp and cold. John almost felt like a reprimanded child.

"This isn't a joking matter, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said, the return to formalities accentuating the harshness of his tone. "Sherlock is behaving recklessly with his life. He hasn't left Baker Street since you so graciously denied him access to his godchild. He won't take cases-"

"And last I checked, those things weren't illegal," John said stubbornly.

"Your compassion for my brother is overwhelming," Mycroft said with contempt, "especially considering your substantial influence in his recent relapses."

That took John aback. "What?" he asked.

Mycroft turned away, and John watched in fascination as the elder Holmes revealed more to him in that moment than he ever had. His face, before he had turned away, had showed a man in distress, fear and despair dominant among the myriad of emotions that rippled and shook under the man's efforts to conceal them again. John hadn't known Mycroft could be so unguarded. The only emotion John had ever witnessed from him was anger. Was this some sort of trick? A ploy to influence John into doing something he didn't want to?

It was certainly working.

"Is… Is Sherlock using again?" John prodded. His stomach dropped sickeningly at the idea.

Mycroft, to his credit, composed himself quickly. When he spoke next, his voice did not waver, but it was much softer than it had been.

"Yes," he said. "Sherlock has been using heavily these past three weeks."

"And…and my 'influence'…" John tried to wrap his head around the information. "You mean that he's using because of-"

"Because of your accusations against him about Mary's death," Mycroft finished for him.

The words hit John like a physical blow. His breath left him, his vision swam, and his chest suddenly ached. He couldn't breathe. His eyes closed. His heart hammered wildly against its cage as if it wanted to escape. Thoughts began to invade his mind, thoughts of how he'd acted recently that could possibly lead to Sherlock's habit being reintroduced. John had told Sherlock not to come to the funeral; he'd confronted Sherlock when he showed up at the cemetery and told him to bugger off; when Sherlock had persisted, John had refused to see him. John had written him a letter… Oh God, the letter! What had he even written? He didn't even know anymore, only that it had been cruel in telling Sherlock to stay away from him and Rosie for good. Regret, like ice in his veins, chilled him and left him lightheaded. How could he have done this to Sherlock?

"How bad…?" John couldn't finish the sentence, choked by the mound that now formed in his throat at the idea.

"If he continues the way he's been, he will die."

John considered the information as calmly as his now racing mind would allow. His own fear began to flow through him. He thought about the last time Sherlock had used, that day on the Tarmac when he was supposed to have left for eastern Europe. According to Sherlock's own record, he had taken more than enough drugs that day to end his life. Had he come to that point again? John shivered. He had almost lost his best friend in a very permanent way that day… could he go through that again? Could he stand to lose Sherlock for real this time? John shook his head as if to answer his own unasked question. Of course he couldn't do that again. It would be the end of him, just as surely as it had nearly been the end of him the first time.

"Take me to him," John managed.

"We're already here," Mycroft said, gesturing for John to look out his window.

They were on Baker Street, and John was directly in front of that familiar black door with those familiar gold letters and that familiar brass knocker. John was filled with a sense of homecoming as he drank in every minute detail that he had missed so dearly. The windows to 222B were closed, the curtains open. There was no tall, lanky figure silhouetted there, no violin music drifting down to the street, but shadows passed back and forth over the glass in quick succession, giving the impression of inhabitation. Sherlock appeared to be pacing the living room at speed. John opened his door and made to get out.

"One more thing, John," Mycroft said, recalling him to the car interior. John turned to look. "If you get an opportunity-"

Gunshots pierced the air.

John reacted on instinct. He crouched low and covered his head. He had been halfway out of the car, his foot on the pavement, when the first shot rang out. He immediately retreated into the car, cowering from the sound when a second shot sounded. Three more followed before all was still.

"What the fuck?" John asked, peering around his open door. He scanned the street thoroughly, taking in every detail again. The shots had come from 221, and he made his way to the door with determined strides.

The light from the street illuminated the dark hallway within, and he quickly made his way inside, wondering whether he should check the rest of the building first before going straight for the source. He knew that the shots had come from upstairs, but was Mrs. Hudson in danger? He stood in the doorway for a few seconds, weighing his options, then quickly searched the first floor to put his military side at ease.

"Are you satisfied with your search?" Mycroft asked him when he returned to the front door. He appeared unaffected by the disturbance and strode arrogantly toward the stairs. Once again, John noted, the man seemed in total control of himself.

"I always take gunshots seriously," John replied, eyeing the stairs warily. He really wished he had his gun with him. He felt exposed without it.

"In all likelihood, those shots were simply a form of entertainment for my brother," Mycroft said. "Would you like any assistance, or shall I leave you to handle him?"

"You talk about him like he's a toddler," John said.

"A toddler would be preferable."

John snorted and began climbing the seventeen steps to 221B, Mycroft just behind him. There was movement in the flat, heavy footfalls that could only be Sherlock pacing again. He was talking, too, but John couldn't hear another voice. Talking to himself? That would be like Sherlock to have an entire conversation with himself. He'd done it many times before, apparently talking to John while he was out. One particular memory about a "conversation" Sherlock had apparently had with him involving digestion and snake skin brought an involuntary grin to his lips.

Thy reached the landing, and John pushed the door open quickly. The flat was a mess: Sherlock's furniture was no longer visible under the stacks and stacks of case files, pictures, clothes, and food trays that littered every available surface. The couch was the only recognizable thing in the room, completely devoid of any clutter. The man himself stood at what John remembered to be the desk but what now resembled the contents of an upended rubbish bin, a revolver in hand. Sherlock seemed to be adding to his collection, pulling empty bottles and decaying food out of his dressing gown pockets and dropping them at random on the pile. It was the single most ridiculous thing he'd ever witnessed the detective doing, and John had seen some very ridiculous things.

Mycroft appeared at John's side. He sniffed, a look of pure disgust on his face as he took in his surroundings and his brother in one brief glance. "Well, I guess that accounts for the smell," he said.

Sherlock looked around at the sound of his brother's voice, apparently not having noticed the arrival until that moment. His eyes were bloodshot, his face unshaven, and his hair was, for the first time in John's memory, _greasy_. John resisted the urge to inhale through his nose as he finally became aware of the smell Mycroft had referred to.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock sneered at his brother.

"Just checking in," Mycroft said. "You know. Familial obligation and all."

"Piss off," Sherlock said, turning away again. John smirked despite himself.

"Oh good," said Mycroft. "Shall I tell Mummy that you said so?"

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked, walking toward the kitchen where, John now realized, Mrs. Hudson was making tea. She kept shooting furtive glances at Sherlock and the revolver in his hand, and then at the wall by the couch. John followed her gaze and saw five small holes in what appeared to be an empty case file.

"Well?" Sherlock asked again, turning around to face John and Mycroft. He did it so quickly that John barely had time to react before a gun was pointed directly at him for the second time that day.

Mrs. Hudson squeaked in despair. "Oh, Sherlock, don't!" she pleaded.

John looked at the gun, then at Sherlock, quickly getting over his surprise. Sherlock stared manically back at him, his eyes darting endlessly and never resting on one place. He seemed to be trying to work through something, confusion furrowing his brows, and his hand shook violently as it held the gun. He was high, that much was obvious. That he was dangerous was even more absolute. John inwardly cursed the exhilarated thrill that thought gave him.

 _Could be dangerous…_

"What do you want?" Sherlock repeated.

"Popped in for tea and biscuits," John said, his voice never wavering. "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I couldn't find the chocolate ones you like."

Sherlock pulled the bar on his revolver back threateningly and readjusted his grip on the gun, holding it more steadily at John. "Don't patronize me, John," he said.

"Is this really necessary?" Mycroft drawled from behind John. "Really, brother, have you become so tedious?"

"What. Do. You. Want?" Sherlock asked again, emphasizing each word through clenched teeth.

"Sherlock," said John, getting angry again, "we both know that you just put all your rounds in that file on the wall, so stop being a twat and get that fucking gun out of my face."

"Not all my rounds," Sherlock said, a smirk tugging at his mouth. He was enjoying himself, John was sure, and that only made him angrier.

"Oh, right, so you're going to shoot me, then?" John asked.

"I could if I wanted to," Sherlock said.

"To Hell you will."

John moved quickly, stepping forward and grasping the gun in his right hand. With a motion practiced and perfected in the army, John disarmed Sherlock and brought him to the ground on his stomach in three fluid motions. He secured his captive with a knee to the back, ensuring no possible escape. Sherlock squirmed under him, quite uncomfortable, but John ignored him in favor of securing the safety on the revolver. Then, just to prove his point, he checked the chamber for bullets.

There was one bullet left. John looked at Sherlock and found the detective smirking in triumph.

"Told you I could if I wanted to," he quipped.

John's frustration with the way this day had gone (kidnapped by Mycroft, insulted, belittled, held at gunpoint, reprimanded, guilted, returned to Baker Street, and again held at gunpoint) surged through him bitterly, manifesting in a well-aimed punch to Sherlock's nose. Sherlock's entire body went slack and his head dropped heavily to the ground as he lost consciousness.

 **Author's Note Update:**

 **So, I actually took the time to go back and re-write this chapter. I wasn't entirely satisfied with the way it originally turned out, and I really just needed to change some things at the end to further my plot. Hope you liked it the second time around.**


End file.
